By Jinjia Grace Hu

Every morning when I open my door, a pigeon waits on my doorstep. It might have been mundane—New York has more pigeons than straight men, according to my friend—if it hadn’t been the same pigeon every day, following me around with the obedience of a Victorian butler. The emerald plumes on his chest bounce with each step as he trails me. He doesn’t chirp or coo, asking for no food or attention; he simply follows. 

During the fifteen-minute walk from my place to the subway station, I know that whenever I turn around, I’ll see him teetering behind me, patiently shifting his weight from one leg to the other. His head is always kept low, as though surveying the ground before trusting it with his toes. In those moments, the early sun bakes my half-awake face, and I’m filled with the reassurance of this small consistency in an ever-changing world. 

When I step out of the subway after work, usually late afternoon, he’s waiting outside the station. Does he ever leave? I never know, yet I hope he does. I hope he has pigeon friends to play with, to talk about the day, to tell about us. As the lingering sunlight softly tickles the back of our necks, he chaperones me just as he does in the morning: same street, reverse direction. Only this time, rather than trailing me, he waddles in front of me, head still low, as if he’s leading me home. He stops right in front of my doorstep as we arrive, and I know I’ll see him again the next morning. 

Only later do I notice how low he keeps his head, his red beak nearly grazing the pavement—tracing the dark contour on the ground. He isn’t escorting me. He’s in love with my shadow. 

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Jinjia Grace Hu was born in Nanjing, China, and lives in New York with her cat, Almond. She is an MFA candidate in creative writing at Columbia University. Her stories appear or are forthcoming in The Bloomin’ Onion, The First Line, and elsewhere.